


my heart unloosed, dissolved between your hands

by amells (aeviternal)



Series: as if i had a string somewhere under my left ribs [4]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Jealousy, spoilers for the book 3 demo lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26355496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeviternal/pseuds/amells
Summary: The detective has a date.Adam— well, he does not approve.
Relationships: Detective/Adam du Mortain, Female Detective/Adam du Mortain, Female Detective/Original Character (mentioned; minor)
Series: as if i had a string somewhere under my left ribs [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917049
Comments: 10
Kudos: 79





	my heart unloosed, dissolved between your hands

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: _"are you... jealous?"_ set early-book 3, roughly

It is perhaps possible that Adam has become too… _comfortable,_ shall he say, with how things are.

‘Comfortable’, of course, has never been a word — nor a _sentiment —_ that he is well-acquainted with. ‘Comfort’ implies a certainty in one’s circumstances, one’s world, that he has previously attributed only to the young or naive. 

Nate, for example. Adam would never _dream_ of naming him ‘naive’, not knowing what he does, not having been acquainted with the man for so long. Yet still, the near seven-hundred years between them is never so blatant as it is in times of peace, times between missions, wherein Nate seeks out distraction or pleasure in old books that peel open at his touch and fine tea served in ever-finer china, while Adam…

Well.

Nate is not young, perhaps, not by human standards. But he is not ancient, either, and the detective’s constant pokes at Adam’s seniority have assured that he never forgets that _he_ is.

The detective. The unwitting and utterly _impossible_ source of all this… all this… _complacency._

The word tastes ugly and foul in his mouth. But it is, unfortunately, the fitting one. More fitting than any other he can think of in any of the languages he knows, though he tries not to think overmuch on it, tries to pretend he does not in passing run the taste of _dēditiō_ over the inside of his teeth.

The point is this: he has become used to having a place — whatever that place may be — in Detective Lovelace’s life. And this evening proves just how foolish such a supposition, such an _intrusion,_ truly is.

Because when he arrives at the detective’s apartment for a routine check-in, just a quick glance to ensure she’s alright, to ensure no one has snatched her away in the hours since last he saw her— he stops dead in his tracks.

Her door is the one at the end of the hall, and usually it’s shut tight, but today it’s half-open as she steps out, pausing to rifle through her bag with the kind of curse that would make a nun blush, and she—

She’s wearing a dress.

She… _hasn’t_ worn a dress. Not— not since _he’s_ known her, at least, not once in all the months they’ve been acquainted. June has always favoured leggings and jeans, sweatpants if she’s here or at the Warehouse, or else shorts on Wayhaven’s increasingly-frequent sunny days. Adam has never even seen her in a _skirt._

But this— 

It isn’t any great production, he supposes, not technically. Indeed, it’s perhaps the most _June_ sort of dress he’s ever seen; casual, comfortable-looking, a thing of dark olive fabric draped almost loosely over her body, just-barely kissing her mid-thigh. Her legs are bare, owed at least in part to the surprisingly humid weeks they’ve been having now, at the tail-end of summer, and though the neckline is far from _plunging,_ it’s certainly lower cut than she usually dresses.

It’s— _merde,_ it’s more of her skin than he’s ever seen at one time before, and he does not understand why this fact is so _striking_ to him, knows only that it _is_ , that the image of her here, the fluorescent lights of the hallway catching the copper tones of her hair and turning them to bronze, will be burned into his brain for _days._

She draws the door shut, her keys jingling in her hand as she locks it, and then she _turns,_ and their eyes meet, and— and _oh._

“Adam!”

He clears his throat. He is closer, now, than he was before — he does not remember taking even a step. “Detective.”

Her eyes are wide and somehow _browner_ than usual, made almost doe-like by her darkened lashes, the swipe of a black wing at each corner. And her _mouth._ Her lovely mouth; it’s shinier than he’s ever seen it, glossy and pretty and soft-looking. This is new, too, and almost cruelly distracting. She has always been— always been _attractive,_ objectively, from an unbiased standpoint, and yet looking at her now is… painful, almost. _Oddly_ so.

Thank every god he no longer believes in that he does not need to breathe.

She clears her throat, eyes darting away, and the spell is broken. “What— uh, what’re you doing here?”

With a thorough scan of the hall, Adam says, “I— was passing on my patrol.”

_No you weren’t._

“Oh.” June nods with a bemused little smile. “Right. Cool. How’s that going? Everything, like, a-OK, or?”

“Yes, fine.”

Strangely fine, in truth. The town has been quiet since they discovered the bounty; Adam has felt every day as though he were holding his breath, waiting for the Trappers or some other unknown to strike.

There are too many unknowns here, now. The idea that he might fear the supernatural over the state of a _human_ was once laughable, but now— 

Well. It does not bear thinking about, if only so he need not acknowledge the strange tightness in his chest whenever he is reminded of it.

“O- _kaaaay,_ _”_ June says after a moment, nodding again before she sucks her lower lip into her mouth awkwardly. This latter is a move that Adam very deliberately does not look at, affixing his gaze to the door behind her. 

It needs a fresh coat of paint; she ought to talk to her landlord about that.

A pause. Then: “Alright, well, I, uh— I really have to go, so.”

Yes. Yes, she is clearly busy. Although— the sun is already mostly set, and he cannot think _where_ she might need to go at this time, dressed for an event.

“Where?” Only there is too much interest in his tone, damn it, so he quickly adds, “you should be careful going out alone.”

June rolls her eyes. “Thank you, Adam, I had _no_ idea. I figured I’d go into the Trappers’ hideout and be welcomed with open arms and knives, maybe just walk directly into oncoming traffic while I was at it, y’know?”

Jaw clenched, he chides, “detective.”

“I’ll be fine, seriously.”

She takes a step forward, filling his senses with the saccharine scent of artificial strawberries and cotton as her still slightly-damp hair — usually scraped back into a messy amber knot atop her head — flutters around her shoulders with the movement. And _merde,_ he’s even more aware of all that skin this close, the wings of her collarbone bared by the dress’ scooped neckline, her breasts just barely starting to swell invitingly against the fabric—

It is _archaic,_ how struck he is by her. It is _nonsensical._

He swallows, finding his voice unforgivably, _disdainfully_ rough when he says, “I’ll walk you.”

June winces, still not meeting his eye. “No, I’m, uh— I’m good.”

“June,” he sighs this time, only a hand’s breadth away from her now, and because he is so close he sees the way her eyes widen slightly before they meet his.

She swallows, her throat a delicate thing. “No. No, seriously, I’m good. I… I’m not gonna be alone.”

Adam’s brow cocks. “Are you meeting Farah?”

“Uh. Technically? _Nooooo?”_ She’s wincing again. “It’s— ugh. Tina’s kinda… set me up on this thing with this guy she knows. So I’m. Y’know. Meeting him.”

The world falls entirely still. The setting sun is holding its breath. His blood has stopped in his veins.

Has— surely he has misheard.

“What?”

June scowls as she strides past him, her hair just-barely brushing his bare arm. “Okay, I _get_ that the idea of anyone wanting to go on a date with me is, like, _totally alien to you,_ but you don’t have to be a _dick_ about it.”

His jaw aches, the muscle jumping under the pressure of his teeth grinding together. “Who?”

“Oh my God, a _guy,_ you don’t need to know!”

Her steps are easily made up by him, almost a foot shorter as she is. “Where are you going?”

“Okay, this whole Spanish Inquisition thing? Not cool, Adam. Not cool at all. And you’re _French,_ anyway; lighten up a bit.”

“I will _'lighten up’_ when I know that you are not putting yourself in needless danger,” Adam grinds out, uncertain precisely why he is so adamant about this but knowing it to be true.

They round the stairs just as June scoffs. 

“Please, this isn’t gonna be any more dangerous than any other date. We’ll be in _public,_ I swear. I’m not _stupid,_ no stranger is getting _me_ to any secondary location.”

She peeks at him then, a cheeky little grin on her face, but apparently his expression is not so pleasing as she’d like, because that smile quickly fades.

“Adam,” she sighs. “I’ll be fine. Don’t _worry_ about it.”

Don’t worry? How can he not? With her— she does not even know this person! And neither does _he._ He could be a Trapper in disguise, looking to make good on her bounty, or else he could be a fae or demon or even _vampire_ looking to do the same.

Or, worse still, he could be none of these things. He could be— he could be just a man, one who June _likes,_ one who Officer Poname thinks would make a good match to her. 

Adam’s fists clench.

But his tongue is trapped against the roof of his mouth, and each time he tries to think of something to say, some argument to make to keep her here, with him, where she’s safe, he finds himself falling short. 

So it is that they reach the front door of her apartment complex in silence.

He draws to a stop, and so does she. And they stand there like that awkwardly for a moment, she fussing nervously with the hem of her dress, he trying not to do something foolish like crush her to him and never let go.

“Well—”

“June—”

He cuts himself off, but it’s too late, because she has done the same.

“You go,” she says, gesturing vaguely at his chest.

He clears his throat. “This is a bad idea.”

June groans. “Dude, you say that about _every_ idea that I have.”

Frowning, he defends, “I do not. I only object to the few that _are_ bad ideas.”

“Adam—”

“Have you considered this? Really? Considered who this man might be? All of the risks that may be involved in your… your _outing_ with him tonight?”

“‘Who this man might be’,” June repeats slowly. This is the moment, Adam will reflect later, that he should have known a storm was coming. The detective does _nothing_ slowly.

“Wow,” she says, looking away, and when her gaze returns to him it is black as night. “Wow, okay, so— so, what, the only reason that _anyone might have_ to go on a date with me is to, like, kidnap me? Is that what you’re saying? I’m only dateable if it’s to collect on a bounty?”

Adam blinks, his whole body flinching with the force of his surprise. “I did not say that—”

“No, _no,_ you kinda did.” She laughs, then, only it’s a sharper, quicker thing than her usual one. Humourless. Cold. “Jesus. Okay, nice to know what you really think, then. Is that why you’ve been avoiding me all month? ‘Cause I’m _that_ undateable?”

“No!”

“Really? ‘Cause that _kinda_ sounds like what you’re saying. _Shit,_ Adam, is it _so_ unthinkable that someone might _actually_ be interested in me?”

“Of course it isn’t—”

“No? Then go on, why are you so pissed? Tell me.”

He swallows. She— He wants— But _she’s—_

“I’m waiting.”

Adam’s mouth opens. It _does._ But nothing comes out.

June laughs again, that laugh that isn’t a laugh, high-pitched and hurt. “Oh my god. I— I _literally_ don’t have time for this, I’m gonna be _so late_ to the date I’m having with some guy who is _obviously_ only using me for my blood, but thanks for nothing, man, seriously, _good talk._ ”

“Ju— _Detective—”_

_“Good talk,_ Adam,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads for the parking lot. “Now fuck off!”

And that— _that_ is how Adam finds himself gormless and utterly off-balance in front of June’s apartment block, alone, feeling as though someone had kicked him in the throat, with no idea how he got there.

* * *

He is sorely tempted to follow her, if only to ensure her safety, however much she might hate him for it, but— well, but even _he_ can understand what a gross breach of privacy that would be. One she would likely not forgive him for — and understandably so, he supposes, though he is loath to admit it.

But that leaves Adam quite bereft as to what he should do instead. There is still that strange shock lurching in his belly, that discomfort ticking up and down his spine, and every time he looks at the spot where last he had seen June, his stomach turns.

He does not understand. He— he does not understand _any_ of this.

And so he does what he always does when he doesn’t understand: he trains.

The Warehouse training dummies are made of sturdier stuff than is standard. _All_ Agency dummies are, rather, because what use is an opponent that falls at the slightest touch when faced with all manner of creatures? 

Still, this does not stop him from shredding them in his hands as though they were paper.

The first falls quickly, a satisfying shatter of splinters that echoes around the room. 

What she said— how could she think such a thing? True, they have not seen each other much since the night of the carnival. Since her hand slipped into his, so small and so soft, warm against his palm. But that— that does not mean— 

He has been busy. She has, too. And it was foolish of him to allow what happened that night to happen in the first place. But that does not mean that she is— that he— because she _is,_ she is lovely and bright and _beautiful,_ however he might try not to notice, she makes him _laugh_ as no one has in centuries, and she must know, surely she _must_ know—

But…

The second goes next, its head bouncing across the floor with a hollow _thud_ that he only barely hears. 

Adam wonders what June’s date for the evening looks like. If he is tall; if he is lanky and lean, or sturdy and strong. What colour his hair is. His eyes; whether his face is fine enough to match hers. Would she prefer him brunet, or perhaps instead blond? 

Will he be quick to laugh, like she is, or more stoic? How old will he be? Will he understand her jokes?

A third falls apart between his fingers, an explosion of wood and foam, metal groaning and snapping in his grip.

Will she be safe with him? Will she _like_ him? Will he make her laugh? Will he do it _properly,_ teasing out the rare snort that Adam has thus far only heard Farah and Officer Poname provoke? 

Will— will she smile at him in the way she smiles at Adam, all expectant and mischievous, white teeth and pink lips and dancing eyes? 

Will she do it more than once? 

Two more dummies snap in his hands as more and more questions form, impossible to answer and yet cutting him to the quick all the same. 

Why did she dress up for him like that? She has never once worn makeup around the Unit, or if she has, it hasn’t been anything beyond the most basic. She has _certainly_ never dressed in such a manner for any of them. Whyever not? And why now, of all nights? What has changed?

Did she want him to think she was pretty? She must have. 

Why does that bother him? Why does the thought of her fussing over her appearance for another man carve up and through his torso like a sword?

Her made-up face, her shiny lips, flash before Adam’s mind’s eye like a taunt.

Will her date kiss her there tonight? Will she kiss him back? Will he touch her, put his hands on her? 

Will she let him?

Adam snarls, his hands sinking wrist-deep into the torso of another dummy like a knife through butter, and with another low growl, he rips it clean in half. And then he stands panting in the centre of the room, surrounded by carnage, something burning in his breast that he cannot — _will not_ — name.

The rest of the world filters into his awareness slowly. The cold sweat on his brow, the breath in his lungs. His sore throat. How warm the room is, and how his hands sting from all they’ve done.

His heartbeat is pounding in his ears, but it fades with every slow, measured breath he draws. But it isn’t only _his_ pulse that he hears.

Nate is standing in the doorway.

Nate is standing in the doorway, and he’s frowning.

Adam heaves a sigh, scratching his hand over his eyes and through his hair. “Yes?”

There’s a pause; Nate hesitates. He never used to do that, not around Adam. Yet another thing that has changed since they came to Wayhaven.

At last: “Are you alright?”

Adam’s jaw clenches. He nods.

“Are— are you sure?” Nate’s gaze darts warily around the room, taking in the destruction Adam has wrought with a faint wince.

“Yes.”

Nate is silent for a minute, his gaze heavy on the space between Adam’s shoulder-blades. Adam bends to begin collecting the ruined remains of the dummies, and Nate’s footsteps are steady and low on the floorboards as he steps into the room to help.

After a moment, Adam mumbles to the floor, “Detective Lovelace has a— is— she is out.”

Nate _hms_ in interest, passing Adam the wrecked stump of what was once an arm.

“On a… _date.”_ The word is sour on his tongue.

Nate goes very still. “Ah.”

Adam nods, stiff. 

After that, there are no more words to be said.

They work in methodical silence for a while longer, piling the limp parts of the dummies up in one corner of the room to be cleared away later. The smaller splinters must be swept up more carefully, but the larger ones can be handled with relative ease. The Agency will have no issue replacing them; they must replace their counterparts in the main facilities monthly, anyway.

Nate brushes his hands together when they’re done. Then, carefully: “You know, it— it’s alright to be jealous, my friend.”

Adam’s fists clench quite of their own accord. “I am not.”

“No?”

“No.”

Nate nods slowly. “But, if you _were…_ it would be understandable, is all I mean.”

“But I am not.”

“Right.”

“It is only—” Adam scowls, shaking his head. “She should be safer. This is a risk. She takes too many risks.”

Nate inhales slowly, thoughtfully. He has the look in his eye as though he were gearing up to a lecture, as though he were choosing his words to maximum effect. It is an expression Adam is most used to seeing inflicted on Farah, on occasion Morgan; he’s so surprised to find it turned on himself that he forgets even to be angry about it.

“You’ve said yourself that June is capable. She can take care of herself. You know that.”

Adam’s nostrils flare. “She should not have to.”

“We all do.”

“Yes, but we don’t all—” He huffs. Then, firmer: “She should look after herself.”

_She is precious,_ he thinks but does not say. _Don’t you understand? She is_ ** _precious._ **

“And she will,” Nate promises, as though he can. “You know her. She is— she is young, yes, and irreverent at times. But she is clever. She’ll be careful.”

Adam grumbles.

After a moment, Nate settles his hand on Adam’s shoulder. It is heavy, firm; Nate has always been comforting, in his way.

“She’ll be alright, Adam.”

Adam’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding against teeth, but at last, he nods.

But Nate isn’t done.

“She’s very fond of you, you know.”

“What?” Adam blinks.

“June.” Nate’s lips twitch. “You are— important to her. We all are. If— if you spoke to her about this—”

“No.”

Nate sighs. “Adam.”

“I tried.” He’s looking at the floor again. “I did. I tried. She… was less than pleased.”

And, at last, Nate falls silent. His hand is still on Adam’s shoulder; he squeezes.

“Alright. I’ll— I’ll leave you to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> yes i know i didnt even use the precise wording of the prompt in the end but u know what these things happen


End file.
